


Communication Breakdown

by knightlite



Series: Michael's Vessel [3]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Canon, Angst, Bisexual Dean Winchester, Canon Universe, First Kiss, Gender Dysphoria, Internalized Transphobia, LGBTQ Character, M/M, Trans Dean Winchester, Trans Male Character, Transgender, mentions of noncon (not dean/cas), noo clue when this is supposed to be set at least post s7 though
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-20
Updated: 2018-08-30
Packaged: 2019-05-26 03:38:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,495
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14991905
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/knightlite/pseuds/knightlite
Summary: Dean's feelings are complicated by trans stuff. Who would've guessed.





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is a snippet of more unfinished trans dean fic i found in my drafts, it it NOT meant to be the first chapter but part of a larger dean/cas fic i'll probably never write (or will i? who knows). the title is a reference to another zepp song but not the one i used in this lol. cw for vague descriptions of bottom dysphoria near the end.

They’re halfway back to Lawrence when Sam gives him that look, the one where Dean can see the gears half-turning in his head, like he’s not quite getting something. The endless stretch of cornfields and Midwest nothingness lends little for distraction, so Dean keeps his eyes purposefully glued to road. Another Zepp track starts up on the stereo, a quiet _Ten Years Gone_ filtered through the speakers. Dean taps his fingers along nervously to it on the steering wheel.

_Did you ever really need somebody_

_And really need 'em bad_

_Did you ever really want somebody_

_The best love you ever had_

“So, there’s something I’m not getting.” Sam finally says.

“Should be used to that by now, Sammy.” Dean quips, and readjusts in his seat, the leather of the Impala squeaking underneath him. He’s really not ready for wherever this conversation is heading.

“You and Cas… I mean, you’ve been carrying a torch for him all this time and haven’t told him yet? It just doesn’t seem like you.”

Dean glances over at Sam. “And what’s that supposed to mean?”

“I don’t know. You just don’t usually…hold back, is all.” Dean looks at Sam again quickly, and chews his lip, wondering how much he should say.

 _“If only you knew.”_ He thinks instead.

“Is it because he’s a guy?”

“ _Sam_.” Dean snaps, then instantly regrets it. He softens his voice. “Sort of. I don’t know.” He wouldn’t have the words to explain it if he did.

Sam hesitates a moment before speaking. “Look, if this has anything to do with your…uh, thing,” Sam winces at his own poor choice of words. “I don’t think he cares. He rebuilt you, remember? I really don’t think he’s the kind of guy to judge.”

Dean straightens at that, and shuts the music off.

“Oh, we’re so not talking about this.”

“I mean, is that it? That you think you’re not good enough for him? Because, Dean—”

“Listen, man, have you met me?” Dean barks out. “I mean I’m not exactly the posterboy for human virtues. I lie, I steal, I cheat…I’ve tortured more souls than I care to count. And I’m…” Dean struggles to find the words, something to encapsulate all of…whatever he was. Something messed up beyond belief. He shakes his head. “But something like him? An angel?” Dean pauses, and bites his trembling lip to still it. “I can’t drag him down into the mud with me, Sam, not like I keep doing. He’s lost too much already.”

Sam shakes his head. “Dean, you’re not dragging him anywhere,” He says, “Cas _chose_ to follow you. He _keeps_ choosing you. Hell, the guy’s been following you towards certain death for years. It’s obvious he’s got feelings for you.”

“Yeah, and look what that’s gotten him.”

Sam sighs. “That’s not my point. My point is, Cas makes his own decisions. And this circling around each other you’ve been doing …it’s stupid.”

Dean rolls his eyes, and opens his mouth to say ‘whatever’ but Sam cuts him off.

“Hunters don’t live that long Dean; especially when they live lives like we do. I’m just saying… it’s okay to take a little happiness for yourself sometimes.”

Dean scoffs and looks away, and cranks the music back on, louder this time.

“Yeah, well, thanks for the advice Dr. Phil, but I’m good.”

***

Dean stares out over the clear lake, at the upside down reflection of the mountain in the distance. His arms are folded and he adjusts his stance—the strain from his binder tearing into his shoulder again.

“My thing. Ugh.” Dean mutters under his breath.

The truth was while it hadn’t been at the forefront of his mind, he’d thought about it more than he cared to admit. It was embarrassingly hard _not_ to think about, even with the apocalypse and purgatory and the world ending on a near yearly basis. He adjusts his shoulder again, pulls his binder a little where the stitches are cutting into his side. He tries really hard not to think about what a confession might mean.

Sam wasn’t exactly off-base. He hasn’t been with a man in a long time, hell excepted. For all his bragging, he hasn’t gone that far with anyone in a while, save Lisa. And men were a different story. But he still had—yeah, he still _felt_ something when he looked at them. A lot of somethings, actually, in a big weirdo tangled mess.

The sound of feathers snaps him out of his train of thought. Dean stumbles and turns around.

“Man, you have got to stop doing that.”

Cas quirks a sly half-smile towards him. “Hello, Dean.” He says. The bastard.

The angel’s hair is still ruffled, though not the same windswept sex hair he used to have. Dean notices, almost for the first time, the small wrinkles forming around his edges—at the corners of his eyes. Marks that definitely weren’t there when they first met. Little dents in timeless armor, ways Dean has already changed him for the worst.

It’s what he does.

Dean realizes he’s slouching again, and pushes his shoulders back a bit, puffing out his chest. His feet move to widen his stance. He clears his throat and slowly draws his eyes away.

“Your brother called me here.” Cas says.

“Yeah, well, Sammy can learn to mind his own damn business.”

Castiel frowns. “What’s wrong?” He says.

Dean rolls his eyes, getting up from his seat on the Impala’s hood. “Jesus, what is this, the Tet Offensive? Nothing’s up with me.”

The angel takes a step closer, and tentatively places a hand on Dean’s shoulder. Dean lets it stay.

“Somehow, I don’t think that’s true.” Cas replies.

Dean grunts at that, and they both stare out at the lake in silence for a time while he lets the tenseness in him bleed out. A lark cries out from somewhere across the shore, and the sun burns uncomfortably warm across his skin.

“Can’t you like, mind-whammy me to find out what I’m thinking, anyway?” Dean eventually quips, even though he’s pretty sure it isn’t true.

Cas lets out a soft laugh at that. “I haven’t ever been able to read your thoughts, Dean, and certainly not been able to guess at them for a long time now.”

Dean quirks a half-smile back. “They’re not that complicated.” He says.

Dean turns back around to look at Cas, a quiet fondness on his face. He can feel himself beginning to thaw out, so he does something stupid, something he does before he can even think about it, before his heart and the rest of him can even catch up. He leans up and pulls Cas into a kiss.

Castiel stiffens for a moment but adjusts quickly, giving back as much as he gets. His eyes are wide open, arms wrapped loosely, carefully around Dean’s middle, as if he’s not quite sure what to do with them.

It tastes exactly like a kiss does—wet, a residual taste of Cas’ morning coffee clinging to his teeth. If it weren’t for the faintest flavor of ozone, Dean could swear he wasn’t swapping spit with a celestial being.

Dean huffs out a laugh against his lips, feels stubble scratching at his chin. He pulls back.

“Sorry,” He says, “I don’t know where that came from. I just—just wanted to see what it felt like.”

Castiel’s eyes soften, and he stares back at Dean’s bottom lip with a question on his own.

“Can I…” The angel starts, tentatively moving his hands upward, hovering them just under Dean’s chin. “I would very much like to try that again.”

“Yeah.” Dean breathes, because it’s just so easy to say yes, even with the bells ringing in his head, telling him not to jump into anything he can’t jump back out of.

Cas kisses him. Cas kisses him with his head cupped in his hands, kisses him hard, and why Dean hasn’t done this before he has no friggin' clue. Until he snakes a thigh between the other man’s legs and feels an unmistakable weight in his slacks. Dean freezes. He stumbles back from the embrace, nearly tripping over his feet.

“I’m sorry,” He says, “I—I can’t…”

He wants to say something, to explain it all, but the words are getting mixed up and crowded in his throat. It’s hard to hear his own voice over the blood rushing in his ears.

“I can’t do this.” He says instead.

Castiel holds out his hand for him, a look of confusion and hurt on his face.

“Dean, wait.” He says.

Dean grabs for the handle of the Impala, yanks it open with a familiar creak and ducks inside. The gravel crunches under his tires as he peels out, making dust clouds in his wake. He tries not to look at Castiel as he turns the car away. He keeps driving til he hits another state.

***

Sam tries calling him. He calls his cells a half a dozen times, then finally relents when he doesn’t get an answer for two days. And Dean hides. He holes up in some crappy motel room and watches daytime soap reruns while he looks for a case. He doesn’t know if Sam knows about the kiss and he doesn’t want to even think about having that conversation with him. The last one was awkward enough.

He doesn’t want to think about talking to Cas either.

Despite whatever mind-reading claims had been made, it wasn’t hard to put two and two together. He had to know the reason why Dean’d left, because he _knew_. He knew Dean’s backstory, the full scoop, all the pink and gory details. He _knew_ , and somehow that didn’t help anything at all. Somehow, it made things worse.

His phone buzzes again with another text from Sam. _Talk to me_ , it says. Dean scrubs his face.

With a sigh, Dean picks up his phone. _In Oklahoma. Working a case_. He types out. Then, somewhat guiltily he adds, _Will text if I need back up_.

He hits send.

A moment later, Sam’s reply pops up on his screen.

_OK. Just, be safe, alright?_

Dean feels himself slip into a small smile at that.

_Yeah, yeah. Worrywart._

He tacks a ghost and flame emoji onto the end, hoping he can play it casual.

Dean slowly scrolls through his contacts and frowns again when he sees Cas’ name. He shoves his phone back into his jeans.

If he’s going to lie to Sam about a case, then he might as well dig one up. He has a feeling there’s a six foot patch of graveyard dirt with his name on it nearby.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks again and as always please like and comment if you read! i'm really, really rusty at writing and appreciate any feedback


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> disclaimers: cw for brief allusions to torture & sexual assault; character's opinions about transness are not necessarily my own

Dean comes to with the heady smell of earth around him, and a hard, wooden board sticking into his back. The air is still, encased in a dark so black that it doesn’t change at all when he blinks his eyes.

He feels around with his hands, digs into the pockets of his jeans and fishes a lighter out, flicks it on. Under the dim flicker of light, he sees four pine walls on every side of him. With a parched throat and short of breath, he calls for help. The words echo back to him in the cramped space.

Pounds of dirt on all sides suck up the sound like a sponge.

“ _Help_ ,” He tries again, to no answer.

He feels along the grain of the walls with his fingertips, searching for a weak spot or warp in the wood somewhere. Dirt and little splinters collect under his nails. His head feels dizzy and light.

_“Help,”_ He tries again, not sure if he says it out loud this time.

He can feel six feet of dirt and adrenaline weighing down on him.

He shuts his eyes and takes a deep breath. Pulls himself in tight. Then he kicks as hard as he can at the center with his boot, and feels a million pounds of dirt pour in, catching in his throat. More pours in, an endless river, bearing down on him like an avalanche, dirt and worms and maggots crawling into his skin, into pores and orifices. He can’t see, can’t breathe under the enormous pressure of it, feels his ribs crack under the weight.

A light flicks on.

He’s splayed out on a cold, metal slab, leather straps digging into his wrists. A heat he can’t see boils under his skin, and Alastair claws at his chest, ripping him into him with his bare hands like a hound from hell. The stink of blood, guts and viscera clog up his nose.

The demon’s eyes are milk white and framed by a hellish grin. He presses his hips closer into Dean, looks up and smirks at what he sees spread out beneath him, pinned like a bug under a sheet of glass.

A hard, throbbing weight is pressed against his thigh.

“Just you and me, sweetheart.” Alastair whispers.

_“Dean!”_ He hears a voice call out.

A burst of white light nearly blinds him, and suddenly he’s wide awake in his motel room, breathing hard.

His forehead and his upper back are fever-hot and sticky with sweat, and his binder feels like a vice on his lungs, pulling in when he breathes. He coughs and winces at the sharp tug on his ribs.

He looks over and Cas is holding onto his side, one thumb rubbing gently at his wrist and the other hand brushing sweat-drenched hair out of his face.

It takes a second for his head to reorient itself.

“ _Cas_ ,” Dean wheezes out, pulling at the stretchy fabric glued to his skin. “How are you even here right now?”

Cas’ eyes roam over Dean’s face, as if trying to find the right words for him.

After a beat, he says, “I know you didn’t want to see me but um. I thought I felt—I thought that you were in trouble.”

Dean scrubs his face.

“Yeah, well. Just nightmares.” Dean answers. _I haven’t had a hell dream in months_ , he wants to say. But he doesn’t. “Sorry to disappoint.” He finishes lamely.

“I should go.” Cas says.

“Cas, wait.” Dean says, tugging at the angel’s wrist to stop him.

“If my presence here makes you uncomfortable—”

“It doesn’t.” Dean cuts in, “Well, I mean—it _does_ , but—shit.” Dean laughs, weakly, “I’m really bad at this kind of stuff.”

Cas gives him a wavering smile.

“What are you bad at, exactly?” He asks.

“ _This_. Talking about feelings and shit,” Dean says, gesticulating vaguely.

“You did tell Sam you don’t like talking about them.”

Dean rolls his eyes.

“Well, not exactly in the Winchester wheelhouse, is it? Our line of work, you get a bottle of Jack, you get bloody, and _you stow your crap_. Besides,” Dean says, and sighs. “I’m so friggin’ messed up in here I wouldn’t even know where to begin.”

Castiel frowns.

“Dean, you can—”

“I can’t be with a dude.” Dean says, and he’s not looking at Cas’ face anymore when he says it, he can’t look so he stares at his bedsheets instead. “There’s things that I can’t do, alright? Most things. I’m not really equipped for it. And I’m not gonna be somebody’s girl either, you know?”

“Dean, nobody’s asking you to be.”

“Right.” Dean says. He chews his lip.

“You thought after the kiss, I was going to initiate sex with you.” Cas reasons.

Dean squirms. “If you want to be on the nose about it, then yeah.”

Cas’ brows knit closer together.

“I would never do anything you’re uncomfortable with, Dean; you have to believe me when I say that.” The angel says.

“I know, alright? I know that. You’re like, primo _Teen Vogue_ boyfriend material. But I can’t ask that of you, Cas. It’s too much.”

Cas takes one of Dean’s hands in both of his and squeezes it gently.

“Dean, when you kissed me . . . before that, I thought my feelings for you had been unreciprocated. I was ready to accept that, to be whatever you needed me to be. That part hasn’t changed.”

Dean looks away again. It’s a moment before he speaks.

“I need a shower.” Dean says and stands up to shuck off his jeans. His binder’s still sticking to him where he left it on, and the back pain is starting to get to intolerable levels. It was dumb of him to leave it on—like his ribs aren’t messed up enough as it is—but he’d all but collapsed into his motel bed as soon as the door clicked shut. He checks his phone and—yeah, Sam is out at the city library or something, digging through dusty archives on the latest salt-and-burn. Leave it to him to be an even earlier riser than Dean.

Trying not to think about Cas sitting behind him, Dean finally yanks his binder off, hissing as he peels it from his skin with a sting. He throws a loose Zeppelin shirt over himself. He hates being without in front of people, but he figures Cas has already seen him in his birthday suit and then some, so it’s worth the extra minutes of freedom on his lungs.

Dean thinks about Alastair clawing at his chest again for a moment, his cloying breath against his ear, calling him _sweetheart_. Cas has seen a lot more, that’s for sure.

He chucks the binder near his duffel bag on the floor; the thing’s rank with sweat and stretched to all hell, starting to tear around the seams. It’s the last of its round of purchases, the other few lost between too many hunts and motel sheets. He’s gonna need another one before too long and breaking them in on a case is always a bundle of fun.

Dean looks back at Cas, who’s staring at him with that concerned doe-eyed look he loves to pull.

“You shouldn’t wear it for so long.” The angel says.

“Yeah, but I do.” Dean replies.

He’s had this conversation with Sam too many times, and he’s not in the mood to rehash it now, standing around in his underwear.

“Let me heal it for you, at least.” Cas says, and he stands up to get closer to Dean.

Dean relaxes his shoulders.

“Yeah . . . okay.” He says, reluctantly.

Cas comes closer and ever-so-gently, like Dean is a horse he’s about to spook with fast movements, Cas places two fingers on the flat of Dean’s chest. He feels the telltale tingling of grace surge through him for a moment, and suddenly the sharp ache on his ribs and back is gone. Dean lets out a soft breath of relief.

“Thanks, Cas.” Dean says.

“Of course.” Cas replies.

“Helps when you’ve got holy Tylenol.” Dean quips, and drops his eyes to grab at his toiletries bag.

Cas frowns at that but seems to think better of saying something.

“I’ll be, uh—I won’t take that long.” Dean says, hoping that Cas can read between the lines a little. _“Please don’t leave.”_ He doesn’t say.

Cas nods, and if he notices the slightly pleading look in Dean’s eyes, he doesn’t say.

“I’ll be here.” The angel replies.

So it’s settled.

Dean heads for the shower. He runs it cold, letting the water sluice over him for a while, mind churning its gears over things he’s not supposed to think about. Alastair. Castiel. Hell.

He can still feel the ghost of fingers running over him, digging where it hurts, so he scrubs harder, hoping that the feeling won’t stick. When he gets out, he’s relieved to see that Cas has kept his word, now peering curiously over at some newspaper clippings Dean’d left out from the case before.

“Rugaru.” Dean answers.

Cas looks up at him, questioningly.

“Flipped his switch about a week before we got to him.” Dean says, ruffling through his wet hair with a towel. “I always hate roasting the poor suckers.”

He’s only in his boxer briefs and a loose shirt now, and the coolness of the air on his skin shakes his nerves. He feels naked next to Cas, who’s standing ramrod straight in full suit, coat and tie, like he’s a box spring ready to uncoil.

Well, that’s something Dean can fix, at least. Good times are all he’s about.

“Come on,” Dean says, tugging Cas over to sit next to him on the bed, above the covers. “And lose the tie, dude.”

As requested, Cas nixes the tie, coat, and blazer, and rolls up the sleeves of his dress shirt. At Dean’s insistence, he also toes off his shoes, until the both of them are more exposed than either is used to being in front of each other.

Dean lets Cas surf through channels for a while, till he settles on a Spanish soap they’ve both seen. He doesn’t even need the subtitles to know what the scene’s about—it’s an oldie he’s watched about a dozen times. Ricardo is confessing about the torch he’s been carrying for his brother’s wife, Camila, and the dark and mysterious past that’s been holding him back.

Dean squirms. It hits a little too close to home for his taste. Cas barely looks at him, his face concentrated on the screen.

Their bodies are still a few inches apart on the bed, but it’s close enough that Dean can feel the warmth radiating off of Cas. A small, hungry part of him wants nothing more than to lean into it, bury his head into the angel’s chest, and feel the soft rise and fall of it beneath him. Castiel didn’t used to breathe so much—at least, not as far as Dean noticed. It’s a distinctly human habit he thinks he picked up sometime when Dean wasn’t paying attention.

Apropos of nothing, the angel says, “I don’t know what it’s like, being transgender.”

Dean sits up suddenly, and blinks. Of all the directions they were heading in, this is not one he was expecting.

“Come again?” He says.

Cas flits his eyes to Dean quickly, apologetically, before moving them back to the tv screen. “It occurred to me, when I first spoke with you, that I didn’t know a thing about it. I knew about the subject, of course, in a very formal sense, and I’d met many humans who might have ascribed to the label had they been aware of it. But _being_ trans, that’s a very human experience. I have no idea what that feels like.”

“Yeah, no kidding.” Dean says, crossing his arms. “You guys kinda go whole hog with the hormone replacement thing.”

He’s not exactly comfortable with the subject matter, but curiosity over Cas’ feelings about it have been gnawing at his insides for years, and he’s not willing to let the opportunity go to waste. So, he pushes himself back against the headboard and watches as the angel struggles for words.

“The angels, most of them don’t put much stock into gender, and vessels have little bearing in heaven.”

“So, what? You’re telling me you’re all ‘none of the above’ or something?” Dean asks.

He’d never really thought that much about Cas joyriding around in other vessels, at least not since Jimmy Novak took a nosedive into his own subconscious again. It’s a strange thought, and it makes him a little uneasy, remembering every now and then that the body he’s looking at isn’t attached to Cas in the same inseparable sense his own is to him.

Dean can’t imagine Cas with another face, even though he’d seen him do it once before, briefly, with a younger Claire. He’s not sure if he could imagine Cas being genderless, either.

“Not exactly.” Cas answers with a sigh. “Gabriel and Michael, as far as I’m aware, pretty solidly identify as male. There are other exceptions.”

“And what about you?” Dean asks, not able to mask the note of intrigue in his voice.

Castiel pauses for a moment. “Truth be told, I didn’t think much about it, at first. It all seemed a little complicated to me.”

Dean snorts at that.

“You’re telling me.” He says.

Cas goes on, barely registering the interruption. “But since I met you—all of you, your brother, Bobby, Ellen and Jo, and everyone else. You perceived me as male. I didn’t used to think of myself as that before but. . . now I can’t see it any other way. It feels _right_ , I suppose. Were I to take on another vessel, I think I’d feel the same.”

“Huh.” Dean says, after a moment. “Well, lucky you, I guess.” He starts to shove away from Cas, but the angel stops him with a quick hand to his shoulder.

“Dean, wait.” Castiel says. “I didn’t share all that with you to brag. What I wanted to say is—I don’t know what being trans is like, what that _means_ for you. But your body has never been an obstacle to me—I’m not giving up anything by being with you.”

Dean sucks in a breath. Okay, so the conversation was circling back in _that_ direction. _Great_ , he thinks, _awesome_.

“Cas,” He says, trying to keep his voice steady, “You don’t know what you’re saying, man. I’m toxic—and it’s not just the trans stuff, alright? It’s everything; the nightmares, the torture, the hunting, all of it. I’m not built for relationships. Every time I try, it blows up right back in my face.”

Cas spins Dean around to face him again, pulls him close so that they’re eye to eye.

“And you don’t think that I should have a choice in this?” He spits out, “Or are you too stubborn to see I’ve already made one?”

Dean can feel his heart pounding away in his ears now, and he searches Cas’ face for something sharp to say, something that’ll cut right into him like a spike, that’ll scare him off of Dean for good. But he comes up empty. Cas just stares back at him with that face, stupidly intense, and curious, and hurting.

Dean licks his lips.

He doesn’t know what to say.

His shoulders slump, and he feels the heat bleed right out from under him.

Cas closes the distance between them. He cradles Dean’s face in his hand, one thumb rubbing absently at his cheek. And Dean can’t help it if he’s drawn into it, lets it rest there while he soaks it in.

He doesn’t say anything, but he kisses Cas anyways, long and slow and deep, until he has to come back up for air. And Cas still tastes like Cas tastes, like coffee he doesn’t need to drink, and gas station burritos he doesn’t need to eat, and that little touch of ozone that makes him otherworldly.

Dean pulls him in and he thinks, if this is what being buried alive a second time feels like, then he’ll let the dirt pour in.


End file.
